


A Very Nice Night

by ladygrange



Category: Led Zeppelin
Genre: 'to have in mind', 'to observe', ......i think this must all be in conversation with the mortifying ordeal of being known, Awards Presentation, Beards (Facial Hair), F/M, Parties, Semi-Public Sex, and it was strange and funny and remarkably useful, and meant 'to keep or tend or watch over', and that one evening in therapy i practiced three different types of hugs, and.........that these stories hold something for me, drawn partly from old norse (hald) and gothic (haldan), now i want to talk about holding!, that being present and attuned extend from empathy, that it's rooted in german (halten), that singular language!, what winnicott meant about the holding environment as a collaborative process of being witnessed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-09
Updated: 2020-01-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:08:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22180813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladygrange/pseuds/ladygrange
Summary: A story for a special day!Royston Ellis was a novelist and beat poet who knew and worked with JP. Christopher Tidmarsh was Neil Christian’s birth name. Everybody during that era seemed to travel in the same circles. This was all before JP’s main session work of the mid-60s. I wanted to peek into time here, and how it must’ve moved quickly for JP, who worked constantly. The Disc and Music Echo awards came just after JP had mixed IV at Sunset Sound, and they would begin the Back to the Clubs tour in March. Oh! And he didn't actually wear a scarf to this event, but I wanted it there, so it's there.Also, it took me ages to figure out where this event was held, but I had to know because that wallpaper has caught my attention since 2016 and I wasn’t about to let such unique imagery go without a location. As a result, I’m charmed by the Worshipful Company of Bakers. Oh to be one with the yeast!! As for the courtroom: being a guild, they oversaw regulations and standards and could try and punish those who broke the guild’s rules. I am.....a bit too fascinated with this :DAnyway, I think that about covers it! Hopefully these notes aren’t too distracting! I want to offer a bit of background and help clarify the choices I make in these stories. And thank you, so so much for reading.  <33
Relationships: Jimmy Page/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 15





	A Very Nice Night

_Pangbourne - February 14, 1971_

“Stop fidgeting, Jimmy.”

“I’m not.”

“Yes,” she knots the scarf around his neck, “you are.”

Laugh lines fan from the outer corners of his eyes. His fingers tap idly along her sides, playing with the fabric of her dress while she ruffles the bow to dishelvement. She knows he gets restless before such gatherings.

“Can’t help it, darling.”

“It is very exciting,” she says, noting his wry look. She flips his collar down and straightens the crease. “Disc and Music Echo are extremely lucky to have you in attendance. Being part of the world’s biggest group and all.”

Jimmy chuckles. “You think they’ll give us a fancy rock like the Melody Maker did last year?”

“I think you’re more excited at the prospect of Jeff being there.”

Jimmy shrugs into his jacket and frowns. “He probably won’t show.”

“He could do,” she says, lips curving. “And then I could just stay here.”

“Ah, none of that, Emmaline,” Jimmy chides. Then perks. “Or I’ll stay and work on the tapes. Could send you in my stead.”

“Absolutely _not_.”

Sunset Sound had been shit. But he needs a break from the studio, she knows that much. And Jimmy knows he’s caught her. Knows at the way she presses her mouth into a line. She gives him a once over then sits at the edge of the bed.

Her stockinged feet are cold from the hardwood floor. Pangbourne never did have the most effective heat, and they’d let the fire burn out near the afternoon. Now darkness paints the bedroom windows a glossy black. Jimmy kneels and chafes her toes between his palms. He buckles the strap of one high heel, then motions for her other foot. 

“If neither of us wants to attend, then I don’t see the struggle here.”

She grins. “Me neither.”

“Then again.” He kisses the side of her calf. “It could turn out to be a very nice night.”

She stands with him and considers the possibility of cancelling the car. Her fingers stumble with the clasp of her necklace. Jimmy reaches behind her neck. 

“We should go,” she says at last. “It’s important.” 

“Mmm,” Jimmy presses his mouth to her neck, beard catching her skin. “And we’re already dressed.”

She chews her lip thoughtfully, eyes glittering with humor. “That has never stopped you before, Jimmy.”

He nips her earlobe. Her fingers drift along the downy skin above his beard. 

The sides of his brown jacket hang open for her arms to twine inside and around his waist. Lambdas circle the beige wool of his sweater vest, endlessly connected. She kisses directly over his clothed nipple. Heaves a fortifying breath.

“You’ve got your overcoat, yes?” she asks, cheek squished against him.

“Got the coat,” he says. 

“Alright.” One last kiss to his chest and she steps back. “Shall we?”

Phoenixes, etched in gold, decorate each wall of the Charter Gallery in Bakers Hall. The birds are about half her height, regal in their intricacies, each one next to the other in rows and columns. In legions. Chandelier and candlelight drip warmth over the walls to make the plumage shimmer and change. She’s a bit absorbed. Had been since they’d checked their coats. Jimmy pulls her back to the chatter at the table. 

“Do you want another?” he asks with a glance to her empty wine glass. 

She nods. Though she’s only had two, her eyelids weigh a tad heavy. Jimmy takes notice.

“Or some coffee?”

“Funny man,” she says, trying to stifle a yawn. 

Jimmy excuses himself and she settles deeper into her chair. There were no assignments for this particular ceremony. Jimmy had strategically tucked them back from the stage, near the food, and the exit. A small group of musicians play a sedate tune. A dull hum, the type only large crowds produce, mixes with the tinkle of silverware and glasses. Flashbulbs snap every so often. She covers another yawn behind her hand.

“Emma.” Jimmy offers her a mug of steaming tea. Strong black tea, the porcelain cup soothes her hands. “Did I wake you, darling?”

She smiles, a bit bleary. “I’m not tired.”

“Practicing then,” Jimmy says fondly. Parenthesis form beside his curled lips and disappear into his beard. “You’re very good at it, darling .”

She looks sheepishly from over her cup and notices he’s still standing. An apology colors his gaze. She raises her brows expectantly. 

“Would you be alright by yourself for a bit? Got caught up…”

“Yes, yes, of course,” she says. His button-down has bunched up, a tad of belly peeks through the button space. She tugs his sweater vest down and shoos him off. “I’m fine. Try not to talk too much.”

Jimmy purses his lips. “Try not to fall asleep on your plate.” 

She snickers. “I’ll do my best.”

Not five minutes later and she’s drifting off, having lost the thread of conversation with a senior editor of the Disc and Music Echo whose name she’s forgotten. Something about Bakers Hall – it’s storied history of bread and ale. The schism between bakers of brown bread and of white bread. Their successful reunification. Her brows knitted, she tries to keep up with his rapid speech. A multitude of dates some centuries ago. It is a relief when she’s left alone. Robert takes the empty seat.

“Didn’t see you get here,” he says, inspecting the dregs of her tea, though his own glass is full of an amber liquid. 

“We’ve been here for almost a half hour, Robert.” She nods to the empty plates, the drained cups and glasses. “And you look like you hitchhiked.”

Robert sports a colorful beaded necklace and a homemade vest. There’s something impish in his eyes. She straightens up, on guard. 

Dimples form in his cheeks at her wary expression. “Me and Bonz just got here. The Aston had some trouble.”

She nods sympathetically. “Bad news for you and Mr. Bond.”

Robert applies a wet kiss to her cheek. “Been awhile since I’ve seen you at one of these.”

“There’ve been so many ceremonies lately, seems the press has finally caught up." 

Robert balances on the back two legs of his chair, one arm slung over the carved frame of her seat. 

“Now come the break up rumors.”

“You don’t sound worried,” she says. “Looking forward to retirement?”

He flashes her a grin. “Not on your life.”

She hums. “Especially with Belfast coming up.”

“Back to the Clubs,” Robert says with exaggerated pomp. “Not sure if the LP will be out by then. Those tapes were bloody awful, and now there’s the artwork.”

He wobbles dangerously on his chair and she leans over to sniff his drink. The potency stings her nostrils. 

“Dare I say it, Rob, but I think you’re drinking petrol.”

He downs a large swallow. “The only way to get through these things.”

She purses her lips. 

“Ah, the lady disapproves. You look like Jimmy right now. Might get stuck like that if you’re not careful.”

She stands and smoothes her skirts. “Famous last words from a man testing the boundaries of an antique chair, and gravity.”

He raises his cup, nearly empty now. “Get me another, will you?”

She gives him a flat look and speaks over her shoulder, “There’s a filling station around the corner to do that for you.”

A buffet of gleaming walnut sits flush against the phoenixes. She sidles near the corner, reaching for a tiny cracker of a canapé, when a hand taps her shoulder. Jonesy looks like an erstwhile professor in his tweeds. He has a jumpy set to his expression. 

“Emma, lovely to see you tonight,” John says, taking her hand.

“You as well,” she says happily. He seems intent on keeping her hand. 

"Everything alright?” she ventures.

“Oh, fine, fine…” He peeks worriedly behind her. “It’s a very nice night. Listen, dance with me won’t you?”

“Why?” She narrows her eyes. “Did Robert put you up to this?”

“Course not, a journalist wants me for a quote on Zeppelin’s imminent split. Here he comes, and I’m not in the mood for that business.”

She glances over her shoulder. A man in neon yellow trousers makes a resolute path toward them, hand raised to get John’s attention. Trying to form her smile into a serious, concerned look, she pats their hands.

“I’d be honored, John.”

Once waltzing, John lets out a sigh of relief.

“Christ, thanks for this.”

“Not at all,” she grins. “Though I’m not sure I can stop him from questioning you later on.”

“Everybody’ll be piss drunk by then.”

Her eyes twinkle. “Something to look forward to then.”

He leads well, solid and quiet with only a dry remark now and again on the room. Too stuffy. And had the fire marshal been notified of this large crowd. Though the conductor keeps good time.

She relaxes into the rhythm of the dance, the pattern of their turns. The swish of her her dress on her ankles and the click of shoes from other couples. Bonzo has taken her seat, dressed in a leather coat with orange fur for a collar. Others are more formal. Some bear Robert’s particular brand of casual. An eclectic blend. Everyone absorbed in conversation and drink.

She spots Jimmy from across the room, circled in a small group, chatting with one finger occasionally against his nose. A polite smile when someone makes a joke. Bowl of a tiny wine glass cradled in his hand. 

He sees her, too. And, as when they’ve been separated for any period of time, beams. Recognition big in his smiling cheeks. Temples pleated. She smiles over John’s shoulder and lifts her hand from his back with a small wave. 

They turn again. 

“John,” she says after a moment, in a conspiratorial voice. “Do you think the coast is clear?”

He pulls back to look at her with mock hurt. “Have I stepped on your foot?”

“You’ve been an excellent partner. It’s just,” she waves toward the stage. “I think they might be getting ready to present the awards.”

Seated a healthy distance from the stage, she cranes her neck for Jimmy. A handful of awards in, yet a few more glasses of wine, and she claps when necessary, laughs with everybody else, but cannot spot him. During a tedious speech, she deftly slips out of her chair and down a neighboring hallway

Free of the crowd, of that unfortunate monotone, her shoulders drop their tension. Cooler air circulates on her neck. Wait staff lounge outside what must be the kitchens. Signs point to the minstrel’s gallery, the courtroom, the print room, the exit. She slows, chews her inner cheek. Hopes she doesn’t get turned around. 

She pauses at an open door where a familiar voice drifts. Where she spots Jimmy’s brown coat hung on a chair. 

She steps into a sitting room, a fraction of the ballroom’s size but no less plush. Furniture, appointed in chintz, sits in front of an imposing oil portrait. She supposes he too has a storied history with bread and ale. Jimmy, shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows, sits at a deep window seat with an overstuffed cushion on the whole bench. He leans against dark wood panelling, speaking to another man across from him. 

Her brows furrow, she recognizes but cannot place that face. The stranger sees her immediately. 

“Jim, told you someone would come looking,” he says, raising a cigarette to his mouth.

That same smile spreads on Jimmy's face when he sees her. A warm burst answers beneath her ribs.

“Darling, come sit.”

“You abandoned me at an essential time, Jimmy,” she says as she goes to him. At his questioning look, she clarifies. “The speeches. I think you’re about to miss receiving a plaque.”

Jimmy moves a battered manila envelope for her to sit beside him. 

“I’m sorry, my darling. Here, meet Christopher Tidmarsh.”

“ _You’re_ Neil Christian,” she says, placing him at last. “How nice to meet you.”

Easygoing charm in his expression, Tidmarsh shakes her hand. 

“You too, love. Jim, good to catch up. I’ve got to be going now, they want me to present an award."

The solid wood door clicks shut behind him. She settles next to Jimmy. He’s lost his scarf, neck free for the small kiss she places there, a nuzzle to the bottom beginnings of his beard. For a while, supported next to the window, she lingers in silence with Jimmy. Forgets the crowd, all buzzing and boisterous. 

“What’s in the envelope?” she asks, absently fingering the curls at his shoulder. 

His smile curves at the top of her head. “It’s classified, I’m afraid.”

“Well in that case, I’ve got to know.”

The envelope is heavy but pliant. Jimmy watches her with a little smile tucked in the corner of his mouth. She gasps happily at the stack of contact sheets. 

“When were these taken, Jimmy?”

He scratches his cheek, face thoughtfully scrunched.

“It was ‘61, I think. Chris had just asked me to play lead guitar with the Crusaders. I remember the audition was in a basement, on one of those little Vox amps, you know the kind.”

She nods, tracing his profile in one frame. Lips curling. 

“How young you are, and so polished. You look like an MP with that pocket square.”

“I still have that, actually. It’s packed away at the house. Chris had bought this old ambulance for touring, and I’d fall asleep wearing every stitch of clothing.” Jimmy’s hand inches near, as though to snatch them from her grasp. “And before you take the piss some more, darling, remember I can send out for any of your childhood pictures.”

“No teasing, promise,” she says. She stacks the contact sheets and slips them into the envelope for safekeeping. “Can you believe that was ten years ago?”

Jimmy rolls his head towards her with laughing eyes, crinkles at their edges. 

“Feels like I was backing Royston Ellis not even a week ago. You know it was ‘cause of him that I got the job for Chris? We used to compose together, Ellis would write poetry, and I’d do the music. Rocketry, he called it.”

His gaze drifts toward the floor, smile dropping to contemplation. “That was just before art school.”

“Yes,” she says. “You had to stop touring because of glandular fever.”

“Mm.”

She picks up his hand and kisses the center of his palm. “You know, you can always shave and cut your hair short and lobby for Parliament. Not too late.”

Jimmy chuckles. Tangles his fingers in the hair wisping at her nape. 

“Would you like that?”

She leans in, nose one touch from his. Eyes soft and steady. “I like you as you are."

His bottom lip grazes her upper lip, then his top against her bottom one. Some slow and deliberate touch – the lightest brush of his tongue. Her skin blossoms with awareness. 

Jimmy pulls away to nuzzle her face. Her toes curl in her shoes. 

“Jimmy,” she says, voice husky and urgent.

He knows her meaning. Her mouth wet and accepting. They’ve both had plenty of white wine. Kisses pear-sweet and crisp and hungry. Jimmy makes a wanting noise in the back of his throat. She answers with a tug at the bottom of his shirt, seeking his waistband and the hot, bare skin of back. He sucks her bottom lip and releases it in a slow plump slide.

“Darling,” he’s a bit breathless. “You’re sure…”

“Here,” she says. “Please.”

Jimmy reaches for the curtains tied just outside and pulls them together so that the ends meet. They are shielded in the same thick chintz of the furniture, windows too. Strangely cozy, she thinks, insulated in this niche, surrounded by finely wrought pink flowers and their intertwined stems.

Two long fingers hook the neckline of her bodice, for the weight of her breast. Mouth hunting for her nipple. She bites back a whimper at the rasp of his beard on that delicate skin. The sharp way he suckles each peak. Excitement coils in her belly.

Jimmy guides her to lay back. His sweater and shirt ride above his belly button, jeans around his calves. Pale blue cotton bunches at her hips, underwear yoked around one ankle and legs bent. Sex flowered sweetly for his gaze. Her breasts spill free, nipples sucked to a gleam. Jimmy remains on his knees, the head of his cock teases slick pink flesh. 

Helplessly she takes him. Helplessly she watches in the dim, diffused light as the swollen lips of her sex part and stretch for him. Clit hard and throbbing under his thumb. She grits her teeth against the pleasure.

“Emmaline.” Jimmy’s voice is low and tight. “Relax, my darling.”

Her bottom lip trembles. Her neck weakens and falls to the cushion, hips jerking into the pleasure. 

She writhes, wants to _keen_. Knows she should not. But his depth is startling and slippery and unrelenting. Each thrust wets his thumb, even the hair at the root of his cock. And then, bowed taut beneath him, astonishing release. All slick spasm and Jimmy’s hands cupping her breasts, mouth sealed to her nipple. Hips ground desperately to hers. 

She’s deaf to the rasp of her name when Jimmy comes. Her mouth is slack and soundless. Insensible.

Jimmy cradles her limp head until she regains sense. He’s mindful of the puddling mess between them and crouches to kiss the tender, rosy flesh of her inner thighs. Long licks clean the seed and arousal from her skin. She makes a high, breathy sound at his adoring kiss to her clit. Her nipples get the same sticky greeting. Then her mouth; her and him, a primal exchange. His hair rich as turned peat in her hands. 

“Ready?” he asks softly.

She nods, tracing the faint upside down heart his beard makes around his lips. Black and red, cheeks aglow from drink, an overzealous heater, and their sex. 

They fix each other with private grins. Until everything is tucked and situated, if a bit rumpled. Jimmy presses his mouth to the tops of her breasts then the tip of her nose. 

She takes his bearded cheeks in her palms. “Fifteen more minutes and we’ll beg off.”

Crinkles spread with his smile. “Deal.”

Jimmy sinks behind her into the steaming bath – the bottom inches of her hair swirl in the water. His legs bracket hers. Pangbourne is quiet save the muted rush of the Thames and the pop of firewood from the bedroom. She leans into his sturdiness at her back. Chest in some steady agreement with hers, a calm rise and fall.

“Did you have a good time?” Jimmy asks, nose running along her neck.

She hums lazily. “It was alright. The last bit wasn’t so bad.”

“Not so bad.” He nips the fragile skin under ear. She shivers at the brush of his beard. 

She tilts her chin up to look at Jimmy. Warmth splashes red on his cheeks, eyes soft-lidded and lustrous.

“I enjoyed the food.”

His teeth appear very white in the midst of all that dark hair. “It was delicious.”

She buries her grin in his shoulder and shifts around in the tub. She wants against his neck. Crushed tenderly against his chest. Gathered in his hands. As though, after tossing in bed, she’s finally happened upon that precise alignment. Where bone and muscle relax in one great sigh. Where she’s pulled into the shallows of sleep. Jimmy makes a contented noise. His fingers float along her spine.

“You’re falling asleep, Emmaline.”

“M’not,” she slurs.

“You are.” He nuzzles the top of her head. “And you haven’t even bathed properly.”

“Bathe me then,” she whispers with a lick to the hollow below his ear. 

Jimmy nudges his shoulder, the one bearing her head. “Sit up.”

Soap smudges and suds down her skin. Hair he’d just washed ropes wet and clean down her back. Jimmy takes delight in pouring cupfuls of water over her head, tilting her back to kiss at whatever takes his fancy. Gentle where she is ticklish and sensitive. 

She tends him, too. 

With care for the nape of his neck and the webs of his fingers. Nails scratch lightly in his beard and earn heavy lids. Jimmy holds her in his lap, and raises more water. Just to see it stream. Just to wipe it from her eyes and turn from smiling to grinning. Unabashed. Washed and awash. Sluiced in something naked and alive. 

**Author's Note:**

> A story for a special day!
> 
> Royston Ellis was a novelist and beat poet who knew and worked with JP. Christopher Tidmarsh was Neil Christian’s birth name. Everybody during that era seemed to travel in the same circles. This was all before JP’s main session work of the mid-60s. I wanted to peek into time here, and how it must’ve moved quickly for JP, who worked constantly. The Disc and Music Echo awards came just after JP had mixed IV at Sunset Sound, and they would begin the Back to the Clubs tour in March. Oh! And he didn't actually wear a scarf to this event, but I wanted it there, so it's there.
> 
> Also, it took me ages to figure out where this event was held, but I had to know because that wallpaper has caught my attention since 2016 and I wasn’t about to let such unique imagery go without a location. As a result, I’m charmed by the Worshipful Company of Bakers. Oh to be one with the yeast!! As for the courtroom: being a guild, they oversaw regulations and standards and could try and punish those who broke the guild’s rules. I am.....a bit too fascinated with this :D
> 
> Anyway, I think that about covers it! Hopefully these notes aren’t too distracting! I want to offer a bit of background and help clarify the choices I make in these stories. And thank you, so so much for reading. <33


End file.
